


The Thing

by lmeden



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:42:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/lmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock is just as dramatic as usual, John is more cunning than usual, and Mrs Hudson likes her revenge served in very cute package indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thing

**Author's Note:**

> For ze_zebra. This is definitely cheerful. It might even be crack. I know that I smiled, writing it. :)

“Where is it?” Sherlock hissed at John as he came down the hall for breakfast. 

He stopped in the door to the living room and watched as Sherlock moved around, shoulders high and head low like he was sniffing for something, eyes wide and seeking. 

“What now?” John sighed. 

Sherlock looked up and his eyes were wild. “The rat! Couldn’t you hear it? It’s been scrabbling around in here half the night and _I can’t find it_.” His voice dropped into a hiss. 

John raised his eyebrows. “Really? Well.” Maybe Sherlock had finally snapped, he mused, maybe Sherlock had gotten so bored that he was hearing Mrs Hudson get up down below to use the loo and was creating mysterious, disappearing vermin from the noise. He wasn’t really worried, though. A case would come up soon, and Sherlock would forget all about this rat. 

John walked into the kitchen, idly thinking about what he felt like for breakfast. Then he jumped and whirled, because there was a great smashing thud, followed by a gasp, directly behind him in the living room. 

Appalled, John saw that Sherlock must have taken the sofa and simply upended it upon its back, knocking over a table and scattering various papers and pens and other things across the floor into the hall. And now he stood completely still, staring with wide eyes down at the floorboards where the sofa’d been sitting. 

John finally found his voice. “Sherlock!” he cried. 

“That,” Sherlock said, pointing to the floor, his voice clipped, “should not be here.”

John hesitated, not sure what was under the sofa that would cause Sherlock to react so strongly. It could be anything, really, just consider the possibilities. This could be the beginning of a zombie apocalypse, or the beginning of the X Men because one of Sherlock’s experiments had mutated and spawned a new life form. Or maybe it was Moriarty and he’d planted something in here in order to… well, John wasn’t sure what the reason was, but it had to have ‘pissing Sherlock off’ somewhere in it. 

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed. He gestured towards thing on the floor and then turned away, striding across the room and throwing himself into one of the chairs. He curled up in it, resting his head on his knees and watching the, the Thing. 

Cautiously, John walked over, keeping the sofa between him and the Thing. All he’d wanted was some tea, or maybe coffee. He’d wanted a drink because the morning was cold, he certainly hadn’t wanted to be facing off with a mutation this early in the morning, it was ridiculous because he wasn’t cold anymore. Adrenaline coursed through him and the tips of his fingers were tingling. 

He peered over the sofa, stepping around the skewed cushions, and then froze. Ah. Well, Sherlock’s reaction certainly had been severe.

“Well?” Sherlock demanded, his voice sharp and with just the tiniest hint of (and John could be wrong about this) panic in his tone. “Get that- that Thing out of here.” John could hear the capitals and he smiled. 

He walked around the sofa quietly and bent slowly, holding out his hand. Its tiny nose sniffed his fingers and then drew back. 

“Honestly, Sherlock, it’s just a kitten. I’m sure you’ve seen a kitten before.”

“Of course I have!” Sherlock exclaimed, and the tiny creature on the floor crouched down low again, enormous eyes growing wide and its fluffy ears flattening. 

“Oh,” John said, and reached for it. It flinched away – understandable, what all the throwing of furniture and Sherlock’s yelling – but he was too quick, and lifted it into his arms. Its tiny claws slipped right through his shirt and into his skin. He winced. 

“See?” Sherlock cried, triumphant. “I know kittens, they’re nasty things. And do not, _do not_ think of keeping that because you certainly don’t have the time to take care of it properly, and then it will piss on the floor and get into my experiments and _die_ , and I will not be responsible for that heartbreak. So get it out. Of. Here.”

He ended with a hiss. John turned, cradling the kitten, which was, god, it was _shivering_ , and frowned. 

“A kitten,” he said, enunciating carefully so that Sherlock might, just possibly, understand, “will not kill you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock glared at him, then reached for a paper on top of the perilous pile leaning against his chair, and snapped it open in front of his face. John didn’t care if he was pretending to read and acting five years old. Served him right, anyway, since John could tell that the news was several weeks old at least from glancing at it. 

“Honestly. I’ll just go see if Mrs Hudson is in.” 

John walked to the front door and had just pulled it open when Sherlock said, from behind his paper, “And don’t come back with that _Thing_!”

The only reason John didn’t slam the door was because he had the kitten and he didn’t want to scare it any more than it had been. He walked down the stairs and glanced down, smiling at the creature. It blinked up at him and then opened its little pink mouth and squeaked. 

John was so caught by surprise, and it was so cute, that he slipped down three steps and landed on his arse, and the kitten crawled halfway up his chest and clung to the top of its shirt using only its claws. John hissed and grabbed the banister, trying not to take out his pain on the Thing. Sherlock had been right about that, at least; it was a Thing, a terrible, amazing Thing. 

“I refuse to explain to Lestrade how you were murdered by a kitten!” came from above.

“You thought it was a rat!” John yelled back. 

He smiled at the sullen silence above as he levered himself to his feet and walked down to Mrs Hudson’s door. He knocked. After a moment, Mrs Hudson opened the door.

She smiled at John and held her hands out for the Thing. Gingerly, John handed it to her. 

“Well, how did it go?” she asked. 

John smiled. “Good, I think. Sherlock’s sulking. He was much more dramatic about it than I’d expected.”

“Serves him right,” she sniffed. “After what he did to my poor begonias.” She glanced reprovingly up the stairs. “Anytime you want to borrow my Georgie, then, you just have to ask.” She petted the Thing, which squeaked at her. 

“Oh, I will,” John said, and left her. 

When he got back to the flat, he saw that Sherlock was still hidden behind his paper. 

“So,” John said. “I’ve been thinking of getting a dog. Bulldog, to be precise.”

He waited, and after a long moment, Sherlock folded his paper with as much menace as he possibly could, and sent John an unamused look. John smiled back, innocent. 

“What? If you reacted this way to a kitten, I can’t wait to see what you’d do about a full grown dog.” He reached for his coat and pulled it on. “Well, see you later.”

“Don’t you dare!”

He was halfway down the steps when Sherlock yelled again, making John pause. 

“You would never! You wouldn’t put an animal at risk by brining it back to this flat. It would die, or worse, and you wouldn’t dare, because that would be _cruel_.”

John looked up the stairs. “Cruel? I was in the army!”

Then he darted out the front door and kept walking, listening. He was half a block from the flat when he heard the door slam and Sherlock’s steps as he ran to catch John up. He glanced at Sherlock.

“Pajamas. Really?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, just lifted his chin higher and clutched his silky robe tighter. _What will your brother think?_ John thought, but didn’t say. 

“I won’t have you within fifty metres of a pet shop,” Sherlock finally muttered. 

John smiled. “Course not.”


End file.
